Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst

At Most, The Greatest Persons Are But Great Wens, And Excrescences; Men Of Wit And Delightful Conversation, But As Morals For Ornament, Except They Be So Incorporated Into The Body Of The World That They Contribute Something To The Sustentation Of The Whole.

Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not Threatened In Hell Itself.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

When One Man Dies, One Chapter Is Not Torn Out Of The Book, But Translated Into A Better Language.